Snapshots
by It'sTimeToDance
Summary: We were all kids, once.
1. Chapter 1

part I

--don't let the door hit you--

_"i hit like i party: fast and hard" _

-unknown

"Thank you, _officer."_

He had his _don't fuck with me _face on (similar to his _I gotta take a huge dump _face, too, if it matters) and his fingernails dug into my shoulder like rusty knives. The officer, who I suspected wasn't really interested in our affairs, handed me a slip of paper with a number on it. A _high _number.

The door shut, and Frank waited until the hovering sound of the police cruiser faded off to shove me into the wall. "You drove my car off a _cliff?"_

I played with the idea of spitting on him, but decided that might be overkill. Instead, I smirked. "Not all of it," I said. "I think the top is still lying in the dirt somewhere."

His fingers clenched and unclenched, the fat little vein on his neck pulsing like a writhing worm. His face--scrunched tight, like it got caught down the drain--was turning _very _red _very _fast.

"My..the _top..._you..." He wanted to hit me. He _really _wanted to hit me.

Before, it was hardly an option. More like a far distance thought that I never really took a moment to entertain as a realistic possibility.

Now, his skin seemed to tighten around his face, as though working to keep the blood in it's veins. His fist was so tight the knuckles were bone-white. His breath came out like a bull's; harsh and quick and loud and smelling like shit. I backed off a bit, my shoulder blades brushing the wall.

"That...was...an...antique..." Frank huffed. "That car was worth more then _your whole life."_

I bit my tongue to keep the snark where it belonged, and waited for him to retreat to his car, like he always--oh, shit.

"I should beat you shitless, you little punk." A mad, furious giggle got caught in my throat. One of those laughs you get during moments of panic, one you can't control and come at the most inconvenient times.

"Let's see how well that rolls over with your wife," I said, the words acting like the cough to cover up the insane bout of snickers burning my throat.

His teeth mashed together like nothing else I've seen, and it seemed as though he might burst at the seams.

He spoke again, so quietly I hardly heard him. "When your eighteen..." he seethed. "Oh, when your eighteen..."

_When I'm eighteen _what? he wanted to ask, like a subtle dare of restraint. I didn't say it, though, didn't say anything.

Unfortunately, the laugh was like the match in the oil.

A billow of anger echoed against the walls and I barely ducked in time to avoid the meaty fist coming my way. I slid beside his legs and strode across the small hallways of our house. I could run outside, or I could hide in the bathroom. The only easy exit from the house was right in Frank's path...

The bathroom door decided to be merciful and slid open with next to little effort (or once) and I slammed it so hard it made a resounding _crack _and splinters fell at my feet.

"_You little shit!" _Frank cried. _"Open this door!"_

As I held my back against the door, I felt his boot smacking the wood outside, jolting me _up, down, up, down _until I thought my spine would crack.

It took moments, maybe twenty, before the furious bellows ceased and the pressure was lifted from his back. The door across the hall leading to the garage (where two other slightly more modern cars sat) slammed, and an engine rolled away.

My heart still beat, furiously against my ribcage, and my breath came out in short, gasping burst. I'd been holding my breath.

I slid down the door and sat on the tiled floor, looking down at my fingers, bloodied from gripping the dirt road for dear-goddamn-life.

I smiled. _Worth it._

--end--

**A/N Hm. Gonna be more, probably. With Spock and shit. Yay.**


	2. Chapter 2

--uhura--

_the art of language holds the human race together_

-J.R.R. Tolkien

Nyota loved how the women at the park spoke in Polish.

Polish was nearly a dead language these days, but these women--_old, _maybe eighty or ninety--continued in the strange tongue. It continuously baffled Nyota as to why someone would go to the trouble of learning a language no one spoke. Maybe because they knew no one would understand them.

While Nyota played in the rare patch of grass, placed in the center of the park like a display of what used to be, she listened intently to the women, trying--trying _so hard_--to make sense of what they were saying, the rapid chatter of foreign tongue that had constantly illuded her since her first visit to the park. Tried, tried so hard.

"Josef, wy poznajecie jak on jest z taką kotką jego," they would say, "Spędza większa ilość (bardziej; więcej) czas (obliczać) z tym potem jego dziecci."

She didn't like not knowing what people were saying.

One morning, for no reason in particular, she woke up early and went to the park, knowing the women would be there (she often doubted they had homes, they were at the park so often)

When she arrived, greeted by the eerily silent landscape, all she saw were their three humped figures on a bench. They were not speaking.

One suddenly hunched over, so quickly Nyota could hardly tell what it was. She made a strangled sort of noise, like she were being choked, and the other women started squealing.

"Alina, co jest nieprawidłowy? Oh! Co jest nieprawidłowo?" one yelled, with white hair and overlapping skin. Nyota could see their eyes, panicked and welling with tears, as they sat up from the bench and began shaking their companion. One started fumbling with her purse. "Gdzie jej leczyć? JA nie może znajdować jej leczyć!"

The one with white hair spotted Nyota as she sat her friend down in her spot on the bench. Her eyes widened further, and she began shouting at me in frantic Polish. "Wy, dziewczyna! Udają się dzwonek doktor! Udają się otrzymują pomoc! _Ona potrzebuje pomocy!"_

She started running up to them, desperatly trying to sort out the spatting of words. The two started shrieking at Nyota, madly thrashing at their friend's back. Nyota saw the tears glistening on their cheeks. "Pomagają jej!" they shouted, "Otrzymują pomoc, was odurzona dziewczyna! _Pomoc_!"

Nyota started crying too, shifitng on her heels and breathing heavily as the old women convulsed and the two others screamed at her.

"I don't know what your saying," she sobbed helplessly, her voice small and pathetic, hardly rival to the mad shrieking of the women.

She should run for help, that much was obvious. But the park was rather isolated, acres of bare land without a building for at least two miles. Running would do no good.

She realised, numbly, that she had jogged right up to them. Even though they were small and frail, they still towered over Nyota with a fragile fury. The one with white hair looked at her as though she were poisen as she still riftled through her purse, looking for something something something. It was quite possible she was cursing, though Nyota wouldn't know.

"Ona nie oddycha! Oh, Irine! Ona nie oddycha!"

The women stopped thrashing, stopped convusling and staring wide eyed at the sky. Just stopped. Still, silent, and the other two followed. All was still.

All

was

silent.

"Oh," Nyota whispered, staring at the ashen face, "Oh, no."

The women, the two still standing, looked stricken, looked horrified, looked as though they wouild fall over themselves. The white haired one muttered to her, not looking at Nyota but still seemed to be speaking to her. "Odurzona dziewczyna," she whispered. "Odurzona, odurzona dziewczyna..."

Nyota started crying silently, knowing that the women was dead and it was her fault and the women hated her hated her hated her. She still couldn't understand, couldn't understand these simple syllables, these simple words and an old women had died because she was so foolishly _stupid. _

"I'm sorry," she whispered. "Sorry...I'm sorry..."

"Odurzona dziewczyna," the other said, falling to her knees and crying.

Nyota walked home and went online to learn Polish.

A/N ....


End file.
